Always
by Chiwan Hikari
Summary: A life without blood, guns, and wars. A life without England might mean peace, but France just can’t bring himself to envision it. / France x England / / One-shot /


**Always**

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Summary: A life without blood, guns, and wars. A life without England might mean peace, but France just can't bring himself to envision it. [France x England] [One-shot]

***Note:** Translations at the end ~

_Hetalia – Axis Powers _© _Hidekaz Himaruya_

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Sometimes, when he is alone, Francis thinks about how he had been without Arthur. And he surprises himself when he finds out that gradually, those memories are fading.

No, not the recollections –or rather, the immortal scars– of countless past wars, complications, and betrayals. He will never forget the first time he laid his eyes on England, so small and frail but with the brightest, most determined ("Les plus _beaux_," he often whispers in awe against fluttering eyelids in the darkest of nights) emerald eyes he has ever seen. Nor will he ever forget the heartbreakingly expressionless face England wore the first –and certainly not the last- time they parted in Normandy, when France could still lift him high in the air and before he could ever envision them as the mortal enemies they would become for centuries to come.

And then there's the blood, the gunshots, and the smoke that he will never be able to erase from his mind. Englishmen razing his soil, devastating his land day to day until he thought dejectedly that the war (oh, it only lasted a hundred years, he now thinks wryly) would never end. He will always remember Jeanne (si _pure_, si _innocente_), screaming for France's victory, as she was burned alive, the hungry, merciless fire engulfing her still breathing flesh, leaving nothing, sparing nothing. Just like England, he thought with loathing at that time.

Yes. So many battles. So much pain. So much suffering. All unforgettable. Together, they make their little Entente Cordiale seem so fragile. It would be so easy, the idea has flitted across France's mind so many times, to break the treaty. It would be so easy to fight against England again. So easy… to go back.

But it wouldn't be.

The other nations still make fun of him for chasing and seducing anything that moves, but the mockeries are gradually lessening, slowly fading away. How else can they survive when he honestly cannot remember the last time he has been in a bed with anybody else? "You have to smell and taste every rose. _Seulement un fou gardera une seule fleur, car la beauté de chaque fleur mourra un jour_, " he said once, or at least, that's what Matthew tells him now. It _was_ pleasurable having a different bed partner every night, France vaguely remembers, but only vaguely now. Lately, when he envisions love, all he can think of is Arthur, and it's almost repulsively mawkish, especially since they have been together for less than a hundred years. Put into the context of the thousands of men and women he had slept with throughout his centuries of existence, how can he possibly forget?

Antonio says that he can't remember of a time when it hadn't been about Lovino. He can't remember a time when he hasn't loved the Italian with all his heart, first as a brother and –as each day, decade, and century trickled away– finally as a lover. But Francis remembers. To this day, he can still imagine Spain as he had been before his acquisition of South Italy. He remembers his shining armor exquisitely dotted with Aztec blood, his sweeping, opulent robes, and the confident smirk he wore when he entranced both the highest Spanish ladies of the court and the most naïve savage women in the Americas. So like him, France now realizes with a start before laughing softly.

He had never believed Spain then. How _could _Antonio forget the faceless women he had seduced in those glorious times when he still sometimes reminisces about his precious armada and his conquests in the Americas? Selective memory? France had scoffed at the idea. Yet now, with his own memories of his nameless lovers dissipating from his mind, he isn't so sure anymore. A few decades are nothing in a nation's existence, but these last decades, it appears, have changed everything.

"What are you doing?"

The door to his room is abruptly opened and England stares at him haughtily with crossed arms.

France levelly gazes back at him.

"I'm just thinking, mon cher," he says lightly.

"Of course," the other drawls, smirking.

The Englishman expects him to retort back, but all France can do is ask himself: what would happen if they separate again? Will his memories of England (and _non_, not the savagery and the massacres but the timid smiles and the kisses along his palm) fade away, to be replaced by the now receding reminiscences of pursuing a different target every, single time?

"Bloody idiot," he hears England mutter to himself before he stomps over to him. "When I'm here, you – " he grabs France's collar, " – shouldn't – " he smashes their foreheads together, " – think about _anything_ – " and finally it's their lips (his words are harsh, Francis notes distantly, but his kiss is yearning, even desperate, and soothingly he puts his hand to the back of the other's head and kisses back), " – unless it's me."

Francis looks into those green eyes, admires those flushed cheeks, and smiles smugly.

"Bien sûr," he breathes, enticing him into another kiss. "Bien sûr."

He can't forget. It might seem as if they had been together in only the last century. But really Arthur has been there for much longer –with the bunny in his arms in Normandy, a sword in his hand in the open seas, and more recently, with a pen instead of a gun to declare peace, not war– ever since he met those vivid verdant eyes, consuming his life, leaving nothing, sparing nothing. And before then? _Well,_ Antonio said blithely, _I really can't remember_, and neither does he.

"_Je penserai à toi,_" he murmurs the words Arthur wants to hear, bringing him onto his lap, "_et seulement à toi. Toujours._"

_Always_.

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Translations:

_Si pure, si innocente _– So pure, so innocent

_Seulement un fou__ gardera une seule fleur, car la beauté de chaque fleur mourra un jour_ – Only a fool would keep only one flower, because the beauty of each flower dies one day

_Mon cher _– My dear/darling

_Bien sûr_ – Of course

_Je penserai à toi, et seulement a toi. Toujours. _– I'll think of you, and only of you. Always.

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**A/N : **So apparently you can't put brackets [ ] in a summary. Or my Google Chrome/FF account hates me. Story of my life ~ Anyway, so this was a writing exercise and when I look back on it, people might not find it very interesting to delve into a character's thoughts instead of reading about actions. Oh, well…. I liked it.

France x England has always been a fascinating pairing and great to read. I could say that America x England doesn't work because Arthur sees Alfred as a brother/son (that's how I view/love this relationship), but then I think about my total adoration for Spain x Romano and I can't just go on without sounding like a hypocrite. I read a few USUK stories and I guess they're fine, but I generally don't like them as much as FrUk ~

Recommendation : **Darkfire75**'s _Happy Halloween_. It's cute and fun with France and England raising their little Alfred and Matthew. Read it !

**Do** a **R**andom **A**ct of **K**indness (DoRAK – seriously, it's a real organization): Review !


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